Page 13 of Icing on Top

Jeremiah dropped the duffle by the door to the concessions and then dug a ring of keys out of his pocket, flicking through them until he found the right one. The second the stand was open, Charlie made a beeline to the fridge stocked with drinks and snagged a red Gatorade. Jeremiah held the door open so I could step in behind her.

She began to root around in one of the cabinets for the nacho chips. Successful in her search, she placed the bag and her drink up on the counter before climbing onto the stool. Jeremiah slipped behind us to turn on the cheese warmer.

“What position did you play when you were little?” Charlie asked, cracking open her Gatorade.

I rested against the counter next to her. “I was always a defenseman. All the way through college.”

“Did you ever get hurt checking someone?”

“Oh, definitely. But I had to protect my goal and my goalie, right?”

Next thing I knew, Jeremiah was holding out a dill pickle to me, the delicious savior floating in a pouch full of juice. I’d never been so happy.

“You are a saint,” I breathed out, eagerly tearing open the treat.

Jeremiah just chuckled as he took the bag of chips from Charlie and returned to the cheese dispenser to make her nachos.

That first burst of juice as I bit into the pickle had me closing my eyes in ecstasy. Water and Gatorade were great and all, but nothing hydrated you quite like a pickle.

“So, pickles are your hockey thing?”

I opened my eyes to find Jeremiah watching me with an amused smile on his face. My cheeks flushed a little at having been caught nearly moaning over a pickle. Just casually sucking on an extremely phallic-looking vegetable. Don’t mind me.

“I, um…” I coughed a little on the juice, which had been the nectar of the gods just moments before, but was now my worst enemy.

At least it wasn’t dribbling down my chin or anything. I reached for a napkin just in case.

“Yeah. I dehydrated easily as a kid, so my mom always had a pickle on hand to help me get my electrolytes back quickly.” I shrugged. “Then it just became tradition to have one after practice or a game.”

I didn’t have a reason to be embarrassed; nearly every hockey player had some sort of ritual they did before or after a game. Mine just happened to also be extremely helpful in rehydrating myself and avoiding muscle cramps.

“What’s yours?” I turned it back on him. “Or what was yours?”

Jeremiah carried the tray of nachos over and slid it in front of Charlie before redirecting his attention to me.

“Doodling,” he answered. “I’ve got notebooks full of random little cartoons. It was something to keep my hands busy when the nerves got to me.”

“They’re really good,” Charlie chimed in before shoving a cheese-coated chip into her mouth.

“They’re all right.”

“Do you still draw?” I asked, taking another—much smaller—bite of my pickle.

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

He shifted from one foot to the other, oozing discomfort, so I dropped it. Some routines could be extremely personal, and I didn’t want to pry.

“All right, Charlie girl. What’s your hockey thing?”

“I always put fresh, purple tape on my blade, because it was my mom’s favorite color. She passed away when I was three.”

Oh shit.

When Charlie had come into the bakery, I’d suggested she share the cupcakes with her mom and dad when she got home. Why the hell did I make that assumption? But she had responded so gracefully, I’d had no idea. It did explain the change in her nana’s demeanor, though.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Charlie. That’s very special, though, that you honor her in that way.”

While her smile wasn’t as big as normal, it was still there.